


now i’m in it

by tousled



Category: How to Train Your Dragon (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, First Dates, First Kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:14:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22893919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tousled/pseuds/tousled
Summary: Astrid’s forty five minutes late because her smoke break after work with Heather had turned from one cigarette to three and she hadn’t wanted to rock up smelling like tobacco on a first date.
Relationships: Astrid Hofferson/Tuffnut Thorston
Comments: 8
Kudos: 4





	now i’m in it

**Author's Note:**

> for haebas—porpoise on tumblr. Sorry this took too long. I’m not happy with the ending and I wasn’t sure how to end it but I was sick of it clogging up my brain space and the rest is so gooddddddd

Rain &/or smoke. 

  
  


Astrid’s forty five minutes late because her smoke break after work with Heather had turned from one cigarette to three and she hadn’t wanted to rock up smelling like tobacco on a first date. Arguably being late was probably more of a faux pas, but she’d flicked a flirty text before stepping into the shower, a photo of her bra laying across a pile of clothes that had received a pile of flustered responses as she tried to scrub the smell out of her hair. 

_It’s fine,_ Tuff had replied but Astrid knows how many people had kept him waiting his whole life. Her stomach drops, uncomfortable, but thinks about how much worse it would have been to watch his nose crinkle in distaste but politely not say anything at the smell of cigarettes every time she turned her head. Tuff’s known her all her life, but she wants to make a good first impression. Or five hundredth impression. A millionth impression? 

At least there’s plenty of parking spaces, and oddly enough for an art gallery, a plethora of motorbike parks and Astrid kicks the stand on just as the heavens finally open up. It’s been drizzling the whole time she’d been darting around the streets, moisture on the back of neck and rolling off her jacket like droplets off a duck’s back. Tuff’s standing on the steps to the gallery, an umbrella with Claude Monet’s waterlilies printed on it keeping him dry. Astrid tucks her helmet under an arm and misses the pool of water collecting on the first step. 

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Astrid says, stepping close under Tuff’s umbrella, tucking the hand without her helmet under his jacket, curling around his side. 

“I’m used to it,” Tuff says, smile crooked, and Astrid’s fingers itch to push the stray hairs off his forehead. Instead she curls her arms all the way around him and pulls him into an awkward one armed hug. 

“Thank you for waiting.” She says instead, sorry for every second she’d held him up. She drops her hands, but not stepping back out from under his umbrella. 

They make their way up the rest of the steps into the gallery, Astrid’s arm around Tuff’s waist, holding close so she’s still covered by the umbrella. They shake off before getting into the main foyer, a security guard’s watchful eyes on them as soon as Astrid tried to enter without wiping her boots. As dry as possible Astrid holds open the door for Tuff, following him to the reception to get their bags and gear put away. 

Art galleries are not really Astrid’s thing. The buildings are always old and the floorboards creak under your feet and the air is hushed, respectful. She’s not sure if she’s breathing too loud, if the moisture of her breath is going to ruin the hundreds of years old paintings, looking too loud in leather and lace. She read something once about how the oils in skin ruin old books, maybe she’ll ruin the art by her presence alone. 

They are, however, Tuff's thing. And she’s been to galleries hundreds of times with him, feeling out of place whilst he’s looked up at scenery and portraits and abstractions with a sense of belonging. This time, though, she’s holding his hand. 

“There’s an exhibition of recent acquisitions in the basement gallery,” Tuff says, looking longfully at the line for a ticketed exhibition entitled _Glow: an artistic interpretation of Light._

“We could start there,” Astrid suggests, although he’s probably seen them all already, “and afterwards go to the new exhibition in the east wing?” 

“Oh,” Tuff says, flushed, “that sounds good.” 

Once they’re down the stairs in the basement gallery, dodging a woman with a stroller Tuff immediately brightens up, pulling Astrid over to an abstract piece she doesn’t really Get. It’s all bright blues and greens and the canvas is _huge,_ and she wonders how much paint went into it. Tuff takes it in like there’s meaning, a complicated colour study of an artist that the blurb speaks of in high regard and Tuff’s enthusiasm is enough meaning for Astrid. 

He talks about the significance of pieces, of who an artist is when Astrid has a blank look, open and uncomplicated. There’s modern pieces of up and coming artists that Tuff admires, a thing of broken glass and copper that seems shapeless but forms into something new when they move around the room. A couple of pieces of pop art they breeze past, Astrid laughing as Tuff flaps a hand “I understand the importance of it, and that as art it has its place, but I don’t _like_ it.” 

“Isn’t the point to make you feel?” Astrid asks, but she doesn’t know. 

“Feel bored?” Tuff replies, turning to a set of Lino prints of forest scenes. She laughs, squeezing his hand and is impressed by the fine detail of the prints, amazed at the physical construction of art more so than of how it makes her _feel._

Several of the older piece’s frames have meaning too, giant golden gilded pieces of wood carved it fit the theme. Admittedly, the ornateness of carved frames gives Astrid more of a rush than a couple of the paintings, seeing the movement of her Uncle Finn’s hands whittling in each dip and whirl. Tuff shows her hidden birds and squirrel, points out brush strokes on the page like he’s spoken it as a tour guide himself. Tuff would make an equally wonderful and terrible tour guide, his passion both a help and a hindrance. 

They lap the basement gallery two and a half times, something new to say each time they see something. Astrid tries to get him to pick a favourite piece and Tuff begs off, eventually settling on a oil painting of a woman half turned away, smoke billowing out a window. He laughs, saying it reminds him of Astrid, a joke he knows she was late because she didn’t want to set off his asthma. Astrid picks a lino print for the technical difficulty and because it’s a bunch of bones and mushrooms and new life. It would look cool on a t-shirt. 

The line for tickets when they get to the top of the stairs is even longer than earlier. Tuff looks dejected, and really, Astrid’s got all day. She squeezes Tuff’s hand. 

“Do you want to stop in at the cafe for a while?” She offers, pointing at a very clearly overpriced gallery cafe with boutique foods. 

“You aren’t busy later?” Tuff asks, looking between the cafe and the line up for the tickets. 

“I’m all yours, all day.” Astrid grins, and Tuff smiles back, squeezing her hand too. 

Astrid grabs a seat at a corner table, slightly secluded from the rest of the patrons whilst Tuff picks out some fanciful looking macarons and drinks. When she’d tried to pay Tuff had rolled his eyes so she waits until he’s back with a pistachio petit four and a black coffee for her. His own hot chocolate is sweet enough that she can smell it across the table and when he lays an arm on it Astrid reaches out to curl her fingers into the tips of his. For several moments they sit there, the general chatter of the coffee shop around them peaceful, discussions about everydayq lives and art soothing. 

“So.” Tuff says, throat probably sore from all the talking and he looks down at his hot chocolate. The silence hangs between them, comfortable but heavy in a way that makes Astrid’s insides sizzle. 

“This is the part where we get to know each other,” Astrid says, teasing. 

“I,” Tuff says, still not looking up, “I already know you.” 

And that’s the most exciting thing. 

“And I you,” Astrid agrees. Tuff looks up through his eyelashes, mug pressed to his smile and Astrid smiles back, secretive. 

Astrid pays for the tickets to see _Glow: an artistic interpretation of Light._ It is only fair, after Tuff paid for the food, but also because a selfish part of her wants to be responsible for the glow of joy radiating from his face as they step into the exhibition space. The entryway has soft lights, a giant sculpture of glass that looks like clouds or a sunset, colours and patterns spilling out onto the curve of his forehead, cross hatching the shadows of his eyelashes. It’s too much, too perfect. Astrid’s going to be sick, in a good way. 

“Tuff,” Astrid says, tugging on his arm. Tuff turns, the shadows of yellow and pink and orange shifting and she pushes up on her tiptoes to reach his mouth. 

“Oh,” Tuff says when Astrid lets herself drop back, her mouth tingling. She wants to bring her hand up to her mouth, hold the feeling there, but from where it’s pressed against his collarbone she can feel his heart beat a mile a minute under her fingertips. “You kissed me.” 

“Is that okay?” Astrid asks, and all she wants to do is throw caution to the wind and throw her arms around his shoulders and kiss him again and again and again. She hopes it’s okay. 

Tuff’s fingers twitch, hand at his side and then at Astrid’s, curling over her hip. He bends over, and Astrid pushes up to meet him, curling her own hand over his neck to hold on. Heads bowed together the light falls dappled through their hair, orange and yellow and pink. Astrid presses another kiss to his mouth, drawing him in, too overwhelmed to say anything verbally that she can with a caress of her hand.

  
The moment is broken by some art student in a goddamn black turtleneck coughing and Tuff looks pink and mortified but Astrid laughs. She gives the student the finger, tugging on Tuff’s hard to draw him into the rest of the exhibition. He looks like he wants to melt into the ground, or maybe stand amongst the sculptures of coloured glass and strange angles and melt into Astrid instead. She asks a question about something made of sea glass and thinks about kissing him again too.   
  


In the end, they stand on the steps of the art gallery, air thick with the fallen rain and tension and Astrid kisses him until the security guard comes out to tell them to stop loitering. He clings to her, the memories, the idea, like cigarette smoke as she rides her bike home the image of him, embarrassed and flustered, mouth pink flickers on the insides of her eye lids like pinpoints of light. 


End file.
